


Rational Numbers

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Recovery, recovery is a long and winding road that isn’t linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 17:25:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15272544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: In ten years a lot of things change. And then some things don’t change at all





	Rational Numbers

Stiles stares straight ahead. “Are we really doing this?”

Isaac looks at the key cradled in the palm of his hand and then back at the SUV, its trunk and backseat stuffed full of boxes and black trash bags. “I think we already did.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles breathes. “Oh my god, oh my god. We bought a cabin in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere in a red state. And we’re queer. We’re the first five minutes of Supernatural.”

Isaac does a quick check of Stiles’ face, eyes involuntarily jumping to the faded scar on his forehead, just to make sure he isn’t totally serious. Then he scoffs. “We’re not in the middle of nowhere.”

The woods part, however, is totally true.

“Saluda is like ten minutes away. There’s coffee and restaurants. And a winery. And that bakery.” His voice goes dreamy as he ponders the bakery. “They have gluten free stuff, too. And quiche on Sunday. Maybe I should quit my job and go into baking? In some alternative universe I bet that’s my job.”

“Hell no. We have a mortgage now. You gotta keep that fancy job, babe. And Saluda doesn’t count. It’s a tourist town.”

Isaac resists rolling his eyes. Barely. “And Asheville is thirty minutes away. You know, where those fancy jobs are?”

“We have a fireplace, Isaac. We’ve never had a fireplace. What if we forget to clean the flue and we die of carbon monoxide poisoning?”

Isaac faces Stiles, almost worried now. “Did we make a mistake?”

Stiles looks at him incredulously. “What? Hell no. _We_ _bought a house, babe!”_ He throws his arms around Isaac’s neck and buries his face in his throat. Isaac returns the favor, and then they’re kind of bouncing with their combined excitement, Stiles giggling and he rubs his cheek against Isaac.

“No more noisy neighbors. No more neighbors who don’t like that _we’re_ noisy. No more building rules, no more anti-pumpkin raids, no more restrictions on paint colors!”

He lets go of Isaac, but keeps an arm looped around his shoulders as he turns back toward the house. Isaac likes that.  
“God, it’s pretty. I can’t believe we pulled this off.”

It really is. Nestled in a copse of trees up a nervously vertical driveway, it isn’t even visible from the road. The outside walls are a combination of log cabin charm and old world stone work, and there’s a front porch with a rocking chair that Stiles had sweet talked the previous owners into including in the purchase price. The whole thing is small, barely 1,000 square feet, but it’s real, and it’s theirs, and it’s the clearest symbol since Stiles tied his life to Isaac’s in one terrifying, traumatically horrible and wonderful moment that he really isn’t going anywhere. That he’s definitely here for the real haul.

He feels guilty it’s still there. The paranoia. The fear that one day Stiles will realize Isaac has duped him into giving up the life he could have had without a semi-tame, semi-sane head case. Dr. Martin has told him it’s normal. It’s okay. That logic and trauma don’t always inhabit the same brainwave. And logically he knows that’s true. Trauma brain wise? Well, he does his best not to give that one the space it craves these days.

He reaches his hand up and twines it with Stiles’. “Should we, I don’t know, go inside or something?”

Stiles wordlessly pulls him close, kisses his temple, then noogies him hard in his ribs. He takes off toward the door while Isaac is still yelping.

“Last one in is a rotten egg!”

“You’re an infant!” Isaac screams as he takes off after him, cheating just a little by putting a supernatural kick in his steps. But when he reaches the porch, Stiles is still standing there. His hands are on his hips and he’s staring down.

“What the hell is that?”

Isaac follows his gaze and realizes there’s a package on the welcome mat. (They have a welcome mat!).

There’s a label. With their names on it. And no postage.

“Maybe from dad?” It had taken him years for the word to feel natural in his mouth, but now that it did he used it whenever possible. Because he belonged. He had a family. Bent, but not broken. He made a mental note to call Dr. Martin in the morning. She’d given him a list of recommendations for Asheville, but they’d agreed the transition was hard enough they’d do phone or video visits until he settled in.

“No, he and Jody gave us our housewarming presents already. And he’s not coming down until next month.” He clicks his tongue. “You know it’s from Chris and Victoria. They probably went to Africa and mined diamonds and dropped off a few.”

“No they didn’t. They wouldn’t do that.” He doesn’t mean the mining part. They’d definitely do that. Since actually accepting their presence as guardian angels or surrogate relatives or…or…whatever they were, he’d found out the Argents were totally into that rustic, do it yourself, rich white person adventuring. Even if they had the roughing it creds to back it up and didn’t actually stomp all over the local culture. “They wouldn’t, would they?” He’s suddenly doubtful.

They sit cross legged on either side of the package, Stiles eyeing it suspiciously. Finally, Isaac sighs and opens it with one claw.

They peer inside. There are two Apple watches and an iPad.

“What in the—”

“Wait, there’s a note.” Isaac unfolds it. It’s signed by both Chris and Victoria but the handwriting is hers. Which is good because no sober person should even attempt to read Chris’ chicken scratch.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“What? What?” Stiles makes grabby hands and Isaac passes the paper over.

“ _They installed a surveillance system_?” Stiles begins reading out loud, poorly mimicking Chris’ voice.

“Congratulations on your new home and this important step in life. We took the liberty of installing a safety system. Which we assume you have just not gotten around to doing yourselves. Because we have had this conversation about personal safety, haven’t we? And you both agreed it was important, didn’t you? It’s closed circuit and you can access it through both the watches and the tablet. Remember, not everywhere is Vermont.”

  
Isaac’s eyes flash to Stiles’ scar again. As if they didn’t know that. As if even Vermont was Vermont. Maybe he’ll call Dr. Martin tonight.

  
“Read the P.S.”. Isaac jabs a finger at it helpfully.

  
“They’re here? They want to meet for dinner? How did they even know we were getting here today?”

“Why do you even ask those questions anymore?”

Stiles stops, thinks, then capitulates with a shrug. “True.”

“At the bakery. They want to have dinner at the bakery.” Isaac feels like Stiles has missed this important part. There’s more on the back of the paper, and the Argents aren’t alone, but he’s not risking his meal. “It’s homemade pasta night.”

“Oh my god, you food whore! This is what our new found wealth has brought us to, isn’t it?”

“Fuck, I hope so. Come on.” He stands and holds out a hand. “We have enough time to unload and shower before dinner.”

They unlock the door and step inside.


End file.
